last week's alcohol
by unravel
Summary: Quinn/Puck; "Q, I'm sorry I said anything, I'm… sorry."  There's another sniffle. "I can't keep her, Puck, I can't… I can't."


Santana grinds up against him and he grabs at her hip in response, careful that he doesn't spill beer on her. That happened once and she pushed him away and then made out with Matt in front of him. He didn't like that too much. But he's careful this time, sipping at his beer as he watches her, her miniskirt riding up with the motion of her hips. His phone vibrates again. He's attempting to have a good time and he does not like it. Noah Puckerman doesn't attempt anything. He fucking accomplishes. But he's attempting right now.

"I just don't understand what you want me to do, Quinn!" She turns her face away from him, sitting on the edge of his bed, her arms folded over her six-months-pregnant stomach. He walks over to her, grabbing her chin and turning her face towards his. "Look at me!" She smacks his hand away, glaring at him.

"Just leave me alone! Oh my god!" Quinn slides away from him, off the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Puck groans, letting his head fall back for a moment before he walks to the door, jiggling the handle. Locked.

"Q." No answer. He leans his head against the door, closing his eyes. "Quinn, come out. If my mom finds out you locked yourself in the bathroom again, she's gonna be pissed at me." No answer. He hears a sniffle. This is why she locks herself in the bathroom, so she doesn't cry in front of him. And she cries a lot lately. Something about baby hormones or some shit. Finally, an answer.

"Go away."

"Q, I'm sorry I said anything, I'm… sorry." There's another sniffle.

"I can't keep her, Puck, I can't… I can't." He closes his eyes tightly, his jaw tightening.

"Quinn…"

"I can't. Please stop." Puck glances down at his watch. He's already late. He hadn't planned on fighting, though he probably should've.

"Look, I'm late, Santana's gonna be pissed. Are you… like, are you gonna be alright if I leave? You won't tell my mom about the crying?" There's a long silence and when she answers her voice sounds small and scared.

"Just go."

Puck collapses on one of Santana's parents leather couches. It's fucking hot in the living room and the dancing isn't helping. And Brittany is apparently DJ'ing and that means weird dance-techno music from Europe. And of course Santana isn't gonna tell her to change the song. He chugs the rest of his beer down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The sound of Quinn's voice through the bathroom door won't fucking leave him alone. He pulls out his phone with the full intent of telling Quinn he won't be coming home tonight, to not expect him to be there when she wakes up. They can talk when he gets home tomorrow. But he can't send the message. Santana slides into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I don't wanna wait for everyone to go home, Puckerman. Let's just go up to my room."

Fuck Quinn and all her rules. They aren't even dating. She just happens to live at his house. And be pregnant with his kid. Puck doesn't do rules. Don't wear that cologne, don't pull shirts out of the hamper and wear them, don't get onions on my burger when I told you not to, don't make out with Santana, don't have sex with Santana, Puck. Fuck that. She's probably just playing music in his room, dancing by herself like he caught her doing that one time. He presses his lips to Santana's roughly and she kisses him back eagerly, grabbing his shoulder as her lips move down to his neck. He groans deep in his throat, putting a hand on the back of Santana's head. And in the crowd, he sees a glimpse of blonde hair. His jaw clenches and he blinks and it's gone. "Fuck." He mutters under his breath, pulling away from Santana to press the heel of his hand into his eye, inhaling through his nose.

She's getting to him. This was her fucking game along. She's inside his head. He can't even have a good time thinking about her crying and scared in the bathroom. He doesn't want to fucking care, but he does. He fucking does and he can't help it and it pisses him off. Santana stares blankly at him.

"What the fuck is with you?" He shakes his head, leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he picks up a half finished beer off the floor and chugs it down.

"Nothing. Not in the mood." He grunts. She stares at him before she stands up.

"Whatever. I don't need you." And she walks away. He stares at the floor, grinding his teeth. He can't be here anymore. He walks outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air for the first time in hours. The bottle of his hand smashes against the pavement and he stumbles down Santana's driveway.

And she's standing there, right at the end. Waiting patiently, her hands on her stomach as she watches him walk towards her. For a second he thinks he's just imagining her, like the blonde hair in the party. But she's here. He stand in front of her and she looks up at him for a long moment before he opens his mouth to say something, though he's not quite sure what. She shakes her head, stopping him.

"Don't talk. I'm sorry. I'm… scared of this." Her voice is soft and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Well I'm scared too." She nods, her hands reaching out to grab his sides as she takes a deep breath. He kisses her softly and it starts to rain while they're standing there in the driveway.

_this is how it feels to fall in love, this is how to feels to fall_


End file.
